life

When Independence Becomes a Defence

by Julie Githiri

IG: @breakfastwith_Julie TikTok: @breakfastwithjulie FB: @breakfastwithjulie YT:@breafastwithjulie

“I can manage on my own.”

“I don’t need to rely on a man for my emotional well-being.”

There is something deeply empowering about being able to say these things.

And yet, I wonder what happens when independence becomes more than a strength. What happens when it becomes a defence?

Typically, when we think about independence, particularly in women, we picture a familiar stereotype: a well-educated woman, single or divorced, with or without children, who has learned to navigate life largely on her own.

She may be straddling the demands of working life, managing a home, making time, however limited for ageing parents, building a career, pursuing further education, maintaining her health and wellbeing, and creating the comforts she wants for herself: perhaps even the increasingly popular promise of a “soft life.”

Her bedside drawer might contain the latest gadgets to ensure her libido is attended to regularly. She has friends. She has a career. She has interests. She travels. She can assemble furniture, change a tyre, make decisions, manage her finances and, when necessary, comfort herself.

She is capable.

She is self-sufficient.

She is, in many ways, exactly the woman we have encouraged her to become.

So why might this woman struggle to be partnered?

Is independence celebrated or is it, sometimes, quietly penalised?

When “I Don’t Need You” Becomes “I Can’t Need You”

There is an important distinction between not needing someone to survive and being unable to need someone emotionally.

Healthy independence says:

“I can take care of myself, and I can also allow you to take care of me sometimes.”

Defensive independence says:

“I can take care of myself, so I don’t need you to take care of me.”

The difference may sound subtle, but emotionally it is enormous.

The independent woman may have learned, through experience, that relying on others can be disappointing. Perhaps people have let her down. Perhaps she has spent years being the dependable one the person everyone calls when there is a crisis, the one who holds things together.

Eventually, competence becomes armour.

She stops asking.

She stops expecting.

She stops needing.

And because she has become very good at doing everything herself, she may no longer know how to let someone into the parts of her life where she is vulnerable.

The Paradox of Independence

There is a curious paradox here.

We tell women: Be strong. Don’t settle. Don’t depend on a man. Build your own life. Know your worth.

And I agree.

But perhaps we have confused self-sufficiency with emotional freedom.

You can be financially independent and emotionally defended.

You can be fiercely capable and deeply lonely.

You can have an extraordinarily full life and still struggle to make space for another person within it.

The question isn’t whether a woman can manage without a partner.

Of course she can.

The more interesting question is:

Can she make room for a partner without experiencing that need as weakness?

The Fear Beneath the Strength

Sometimes independence protects us from the vulnerability of needing another person.

Because needing someone gives them the possibility of disappointing us.

It means allowing someone to matter.

It means surrendering some control.

It means saying, “I can’t do this alone,” or “I need you,” or simply, “I missed you.”

For someone who has spent years proving that she can cope, those words can feel surprisingly exposing.

And perhaps this is where independence becomes a defence.

Not because the woman doesn’t want intimacy.

But because intimacy requires something independence has taught her to avoid:

dependence.

Not complete dependence. Not losing herself. But the healthy, mutual dependence that allows two adults to lean on one another without either person disappearing.

Partnership Is Not Rescue

None of this means that an independent woman should suddenly become dependent on a man.

Quite the opposite.

A healthy partnership isn’t about being rescued.

It is about being accompanied.

There is a profound difference between:

“I need you because I cannot cope without you,”

and:

“I don’t need you to survive, but I want you in my life. I want to share things with you. I want to be known by you. I want to be able to lean on you sometimes.”

Perhaps that is the balance many of us are looking for.

Not independence or intimacy.

But independence within intimacy.

So, Is Independence Penalised?

Perhaps sometimes it is.

There are certainly social expectations around gender, partnership and what women “should” need from men.

But I think there is another question worth asking.

Are some of us so determined never to need anyone that we inadvertently make it difficult for anyone to become truly close to us?

Because there is a difference between having strong boundaries and having impenetrable walls.

Boundaries say:

“This is who I am, and this is how I expect to be treated.”

Walls say:

“You cannot get close enough to hurt me.”

The first protects our dignity.

The second may protect our wounds.

Perhaps the goal isn’t to become less independent.

Perhaps it is to become secure enough in our independence to allow ourselves to need someone without losing ourselves.

To say:

“I can manage on my own.”

And, at the same time:

“I don’t always want to.”

Because perhaps the most powerful form of independence is not needing to prove that you can do everything alone.

It is knowing that you can and choosing to let someone stand beside you anyway.

When is Enough, Enough?

by Julie Githiri

When financial responsibility is withheld.

When emotional affection is withdrawn.

When there is physical abuse.

When sex becomes coercive rather than consensual.

When you are repeatedly ignored, dismissed or made to feel as though your needs don’t matter.

The red flags can be many, and sometimes they are so subtle that they are difficult to name.

As a psychotherapist, I have learned that relationship distress doesn’t always arrive dramatically. Sometimes it arrives quietly.

It can look like two people living in the same house but living completely separate emotional lives.

It can be lying next to someone at night and feeling profoundly alone.

It can be speaking and knowing you are not being heard.

It can be reaching for affection and repeatedly being met with indifference.

It can be becoming so accustomed to emotional distance that you eventually stop asking for closeness altogether.

And this raises a difficult question:

When is enough, enough?

At the beginning, perhaps love and commitment were firmly on the agenda.

There were plans, promises, shared dreams and an expectation that you were building a life together.

Then, somewhere along the way, something changed.

Perhaps the love faded.

Perhaps respect disappeared quietly, long before either person acknowledged it.

Perhaps responsibility replaced affection. Transparency was replaced by secrecy. Partnership became obligation.

The relationship may still look intact from the outside.

The house is still there.

The family is still there.

The photographs are still on the wall.

But emotionally, something has died.

And what do couples do at this point?

Do we simply “suck it up”?

After all, isn’t that what marriage is sometimes portrayed as?

“This is your lot.”

“Love it or lump it.”

“You made your bed, now lie in it.”

There are countless colloquialisms designed to make endurance sound noble.

And endurance can be noble.

Relationships require compromise. They require forgiveness, patience, difficult conversations and the willingness to stay through seasons that aren’t particularly easy.

But there is a difference between working through difficulty and tolerating harm.

That distinction matters.

When we hear the word abuse, we often imagine something visible: physical violence, shouting, intimidation.

But harm within relationships can be much quieter.

There can be emotional neglect.

There can be persistent criticism, humiliation or dismissal.

There can be financial control.

There can be sexual coercion.

There can be deliberate withdrawal of affection used as punishment.

There can be a partner who is physically present but emotionally absent.

And then there is loneliness.

One of the most painful experiences I encounter in therapeutic work is the stories of loneliness while being married.

There is something uniquely painful about feeling alone while sitting beside the person who is supposed to know you best.

You may have someone to come home to, yet nobody to talk to.

Someone beside you in bed, yet no intimacy.

Someone who knows your routines yet seems no longer interested in knowing you.

Loneliness within a relationship can be particularly confusing because, from the outside, you are not alone.

But emotionally, you are.

And over time, this can change the way a person sees themselves.

They may begin to question whether their needs are reasonable.

They may stop asking for affection.

They may minimise their unhappiness.

They may tell themselves that this is simply what long-term relationships become.

Eventually, they may stop expecting anything at all.

As a psychotherapist, I often become interested in the point at which a person stops asking, “Is this relationship good for me?”

and begins asking only,

“How can I make this relationship work?”

That shift can be significant.

Because sometimes the desire to preserve the relationship becomes so powerful that the person begins disappearing inside it.

They become smaller.

Quieter.

More accommodating.

They learn what not to say.

They learn when not to ask.

They learn how to manage the other person’s moods.

And eventually, they may no longer recognise the person they have become.

That is when endurance can become self-abandonment.

Choosing yourself does not necessarily mean leaving immediately.

Sometimes it begins with acknowledging what is actually happening.

It means naming the behaviour rather than minimising it.

It means allowing yourself to say:

“This isn’t working for me anymore.”

“I am lonely.”

“I don’t feel respected.”

“I don’t feel safe.”

“I don’t want this kind of sexual relationship.”

“I have spent years trying to make this work, and I am no longer willing to lose myself in the process.”

And when there is abuse, particularly physical or sexual violence, choosing yourself may mean prioritising safety and seeking appropriate professional and practical support.

Because abuse is not simply a difficult season in a marriage.

It is not a communication problem that can always be solved by trying harder.

And it should never be romanticised as something a partner simply needs to endure.

This is perhaps the hardest part.

You can still love someone and know that the relationship is no longer healthy for you.

You can remember the person they once were and still acknowledge who they are now.

You can have shared history, children, memories, a home, a community and years of investment and still arrive at the painful realisation that continuing in the same way is costing you too much.

Leaving does not necessarily mean that the love was false.

Sometimes it means that love alone is no longer enough to sustain the relationship.

There may not be one universal moment when everyone knows they have had enough.

For some, it is a single devastating event.

For others, it is the accumulation of hundreds of small moments.

The conversation they stopped having.

The affection they stopped receiving.

The apologies that became meaningless.

The boundaries that were repeatedly crossed.

The nights they felt alone beside someone.

The gradual disappearance of themselves.

And perhaps this is the question we should be asking:

At what point does staying require you to abandon too much of yourself?

Marriage can ask us to compromise.

Love can ask us to grow.

Life can ask us to endure difficult seasons.

But none of these should require us to surrender our dignity, our bodily autonomy, our safety or our sense of self.

Perhaps choosing yourself isn’t selfish.

Perhaps sometimes, it is the most honest decision you can make.

Because enough is enough when the cost of staying becomes the loss of who you are.

Warmly

Jules

The Myth of Closure

by Julie Githiri

We have come to believe that closure is an essential part of the end of a relationship. That without it, we are left with unanswered questions, limited understanding, and a missed opportunity to reflect, learn, and grow. We tell ourselves that if only we could have one final conversation, one honest explanation, one moment of mutual understanding, then perhaps our hearts could finally rest.

But is that really true?

Must closure come from another person, or is it something we create for ourselves?

Throughout our lives, most of us will experience the ending of several significant relationships. Some endings will be our choice; others will be thrust upon us without warning or consent. Whether we are the one who leaves or the one left behind, every ending carries some degree of loss. It asks us to grieve not only the person but also the future we imagined with them.

Perhaps the real question isn’t whether closure exists, but how we find peace when it doesn’t.

Can healing still occur without the conversation we long for? Can understanding emerge without an explanation? Can forgiveness exist without an apology?

Is the person who ends a relationship always the villain, or simply the one who recognised that something had changed? Can two people arrive at the same conclusion together, or are truly mutual endings far rarer than we would like to believe?

And how do we know when we have recovered? Is there a timeline for healing, or is it something quieter? Perhaps recovery isn’t the absence of sadness but the moment when thoughts of them no longer occupy every corner of your day. When their name no longer tightens your chest. When you can remember the relationship without wishing to rewrite its ending.

Maybe closure has been misunderstood all along.

Perhaps it isn’t a conversation. Perhaps it isn’t an apology, an explanation, or even a final goodbye.

Perhaps closure is the quiet moment when the heart finally realises it has survived.

When it discovers that it can breathe again.

Warmly

Jules

Grey Divorce- The Late Arrival of Emotional Truth.

by Julie Githiri

The term grey divorce was coined to describe couples, often married for over twenty years, who choose to separate later in life. They have built homes together, raised children, established careers, cultivated friendships, and created entire ecosystems of family and community. Yet somewhere beyond the age of fifty, and increasingly beyond sixty-five, many are arriving at the same conclusion:

“This marriage is no longer working for me.”

For some, this can feel difficult to understand. Surely after forty years of marriage, one stays. One adjusts. One continues.

And yet the reasons people leave later in life are often deeply human. Many reach a stage where they become acutely aware that they have lived more years than they may have remaining. With that awareness comes reflection. Questions around joy, fulfilment, peace, companionship, desire, freedom, and emotional aliveness begin to surface with greater urgency.

There is often a longing for more of something in the years that remain.

More connection.
More happiness.
More selfhood.

But what happens to the partner who is left behind?

For many, their identity, stability, and happiness have become intertwined with the marriage itself. The ending of the relationship can feel like the dismantling of an entire life structure. One person’s liberation can feel like another person’s loss.

Clinically, I increasingly meet clients navigating this very dilemma. Whose feelings matter most? The person leaving? The partner staying? And what of the adult children, who themselves hold emotional investments in the family remaining intact?

This triangulation of feelings is profoundly complex. Every member of the family system is affected by the rupture of what once felt stable and permanent.

Yet in truth, the person whose feelings often matter most is the one making the decision.

What I have observed repeatedly in the clinical space is that when someone finally verbalises their desire to leave, the decision has rarely been impulsive. More often, it has been preceded by months, sometimes years, of internal dialogue. They have wrestled privately with guilt, fear, responsibility, hope, grief, and freedom long before speaking the words aloud.

As a psychotherapist, my role is not to tell someone whether to stay or leave. Rather, it is to explore the “why now?” To understand the emotional landscape surrounding the decision, the links to significant past relationships, familial attachments, internal guilt mechanisms, fears, and desires.

I explore what freedom means to them.
What joy means to them.
What they believe they are losing, and what they hope they may still find.

But the instruction of “do not go” is not within my professional scope. Nor should it be.

How could I impose my personal opinion on a decision someone may have been carrying, silently and painfully, for years?

Sometimes grey divorce is not simply about the ending of a marriage.

Sometimes it is about the late arrival of emotional truth.

Warmly 

 Jules 

Before We Knew Love, We Felt It

by Julie Githiri

Parental relationships must be some of the most frequently explored familial dynamics in therapy. There is a need for deeper interrogation, not only of the love that was present, but of the care that was absent, inconsistent, or withheld.

As a baby, one of the first forms of communication is through tears. You arrive into the world crying, and more often than not, you are met with relief, love, gratitude, even awe. You are gathered into arms, held close to the bosom, encouraged to suckle and so begins your first relationship with the adults who will become your parents.

Touch becomes your earliest language.

You are bathed, soothed, winded, changed. Each act carries the possibility of tenderness: a soft voice, a gentle caress, the rhythm of reassurance. A kind of closeness that does not need to be earned. A connection that exists without transaction.

But not all touch is experienced in the same way.

For some, it is warm, attuned, and consistent a foundation upon which safety is built. For others, it may be hurried, inconsistent, or absent altogether. And in some cases, touch itself becomes confusing something that does not quite match the emotional need beneath it.

These early exchanges so ordinary, so easily overlooked begin to shape something profound.

They inform how we come to understand safety, closeness, love, and ultimately, ourselves.

Because before we had language, we had sensation. Before we had meaning, we had experience. And we had our bodies, long before the mind begins to remember what it means to be held, or not.

And it is this body that grows up.

This same body enters adulthood carrying an internal blueprint of intimacy one that is rarely conscious, yet deeply influential. When we begin to form romantic and sexual relationships, we are not starting from a blank slate. We are, in many ways, returning to something familiar.

But familiarity is not only personal. It is also cultural.

Across many African households, love has often been expressed through provision, responsibility, and sacrifice, rather than overt emotional or physical tenderness. A parent’s love may be unquestionable, yet not always verbally affirmed or physically demonstrated beyond what was necessary. Strength, respect, and endurance are prioritised sometimes at the expense of softer expressions of care.

In British contexts, there may be a different tension. Emotional expression may be more permitted, yet still shaped by restraint, independence, and an unspoken expectation to “hold oneself together.” Affection exists, but often within quiet boundaries.

For many of us living between cultures, these messages intertwine.

We may have been deeply loved but not always held in ways that our bodies could easily recognise as soothing or safe. Touch may have been functional rather than affectionate. Emotional needs may have been met with practicality rather than attunement.

And so, as adults, we carry not only our personal histories but cultural inheritances of love.

This is where intimacy becomes layered.

Some may long for closeness yet feel uncertain when it arrives.
Some may equate love with sacrifice rather than emotional presence.
Some may struggle to receive tenderness without questioning its permanence.

And in sexual relationships, these patterns often deepen.

Because sex is one of the few spaces where touch becomes intentional, prolonged, and emotionally charged. It asks the body to soften, to receive, to be seen not just physically, but psychologically.

Yet if the body has not learned that closeness is consistently safe, it may:

Tense instead of soften

Disconnect instead of remain present

Seek reassurance while simultaneously fearing dependence

This is not contradiction. It is conditioning.

In therapy, we begin to understand that many of our adult relational patterns are not simply about the present partner, but about the intersection between early attachment and cultural messaging.

The woman who struggles to ask for emotional needs may have been raised to value strength over vulnerability.
The man who withdraws from intimacy may have learned that emotional expression is a risk rather than a resource.
The couple who love deeply yet struggle to settle may both be navigating inherited ideas about what love should look like.

To be intimate, then, is not only to meet another person.

It is to meet
your history,
your body,
your culture,
and the quiet, inherited rules you may never have consciously chosen.

This is why intimacy can feel so powerful why it can soothe, undo, and awaken in equal measure.

And why, at times, it can leave you feeling exposed in ways you cannot quite name.

Because somewhere within the adult body lives the memory of the child
the one who learned what love felt like,
or what it did not.

The one who learned whether closeness was safe,
whether touch could be trusted,
whether presence would stay.

So when you find yourself leaning in…
or pulling away…
softening… or bracing…

perhaps it is not confusion.

Perhaps it is memory.

Not always conscious.
Not always clear.
But present, nonetheless.

And so the invitation is gentle.

To become curious, rather than critical.
To notice, rather than judge.
To listen not only to the mind, but to the body that has been speaking all along.

Because intimacy is not something we simply learn once.

It is something we unlearn, return to, and reshape again and again.

And maybe, just maybe,
love in adulthood is not about getting it right…

but about learning how to stay
soft enough to feel,
steady enough to remain,
and open enough to experience love
in a way that is no longer bound only by where we began.

Warmly

Jules

The Boy Behind the Man

by Julie Githiri

Reclaiming the Emotional Lives of Men

In the clinical space, I have the opportunity to work with both couples and individuals. Perhaps surprisingly, or maybe not, the individual work tends to be largely with men. Men do seek out therapy. They also crave a safe space to express their inner thoughts.

The presenting issues vary widely. They may arrive with questions around identity, imposter syndrome, self-worth, or sexual intimacy. The scope of engagement is rich. Yet across my work whether in the UK, Kenya, Japan, Sweden, or Sierra Leone, the underlying thread is strikingly consistent.

At the root of it all is a desire to be wanted, to be loved, to be emotionally held and understood.

When we think about the boy child and his introduction to the world, it is often marked by expectation. There is an assumption of strength, a quiet but firm narrative that he must grow into a man who provides, partners, procreates, and protects. Across cultures, the messaging is remarkably similar:

“You can do it.”
“You must do it.”

But what happens to the inner child in all of this?

What happens to the soft-spoken boy who longs to be reassured, to be held, to be told he is enough? What happens to the boy who cries when he is emotionally hurt, who struggles to articulate what he truly feels, who does not quite know how to share his inner world?

As he grows, that boy becomes a man navigating the demands of life the pressure to succeed, to provide, to ensure that his family does not lack. While we might assume that men can turn to their peers for emotional support, the reality is often more complex. Vulnerability within male spaces can feel risky. It can carry the threat of inadequacy, or even ridicule.

So much is left unsaid.

What is often communicated instead is a desire for respect and appreciation. On the surface, this can seem like a simple request. But within relationships, it can quickly become a point of tension.

“Why should I?”
“He hasn’t earned it.”

And yet, when we look more closely at what causes relationships to fracture, we often find something less visible, but deeply impactful.

Ego.

It is one of the most consistent contributors to the breakdown of connection the quiet force that chokes what was once held, openly and tenderly, by the heart.

To be in the clinical space with a man who has spent much of his life battling to feel heard, learning the language to express his fears, interrogating his familial relationships, and exploring both maternal and paternal bonds, is to witness something deeply human.

It is to sit with a man who is, often for the first time, grieving a version of himself the one who adapted, who shaped himself in order to be accepted by society.

You might ask, what is the point of all this? Why dismantle one’s emotional self, especially when these shifts so often occur in midlife?

And the question I would offer in return is: why wouldn’t you?

Why wouldn’t you choose to expand your emotional wellbeing? To reconnect with the little boy who simply wanted to be loved and reassured, who was whole and enough before the weight of expectation was placed upon him?

Why not allow yourself the possibility of deep, heartfelt relationships ones that ignite something within you? The capacity to feel, to connect, to experience desire, to be fully alive and responsive to life itself.

To integrate this version of yourself is to offer your relationships something real, an authentic presence, grounded in vulnerability rather than performance.

It is not an easy ask.

But you are the man who can ask himself, “Am I worth it?”

And the answer, whether you have heard it before or not, remains the same:

Yes. You are.
You always were.

Warmly Jules

Are you living your best life?

by Julie Githiri

If you were to evaluate the life you’re living, what would it say about you?

What actually matters to you? Have you been impactful? Have you studied what felt meaningful? Are you building a career that feels like yours? Have you made the kind of money that gives you both comfort and freedom? Have you created a home, a life, a sense of stability?

And then the more intimate questions begin to surface. Have you loved deeply? Have you allowed yourself to be loved? Have you experienced the kind of connection, emotional, physical, and spiritual, that you once imagined for yourself? And, perhaps most confronting of all, was it worth it?

Are you, truly, living your best life?

We often assume the ingredients of a good life are found in achievement, experience, and accumulation. These things do shape identity, create stories, and offer a sense of progress. But as life unfolds, something begins to shift.

The older we get, the more a quieter truth emerges: health is wealth.

Not just physical health, but emotional, relational, and psychological wellbeing. In the clinical space, this shift becomes increasingly visible. Conversations are no longer only about ambition or potential, but about aging, decline, and the weight of caregiving. Parents who once carried everything are now the ones needing to be held.

This brings us to a deeper reflection on generations.

The so-called silent generation, those who paved the way, carried families, and made sacrifices that shaped entire futures, often did so without the language of emotional expression. They were not equipped to explore their inner worlds, to express desire freely, or to make decisions based on personal wants. They carried responsibility, deep and unwavering. Failure was not an option. There was too much at stake.

But with that level of responsibility comes a question we are only now beginning to ask. What was the cost?

What happens to a nervous system that learns to prioritise duty over feeling? What happens to a person when emotions are consistently suppressed in favour of survival, stability, and expectation?

Many in that generation did what they had to do. They endured. They provided. They succeeded by the standards available to them. But often, they did so by burying parts of themselves.

And then come their children.

A generation raised by people who loved deeply but did not always have the tools to express that love in emotionally attuned ways. What is inherited in that space is complex. There is resilience, but also emotional silence. There is strength, but sometimes disconnection. There is provision, but not always presence.

Now, newer generations are turning toward something different. They are asking themselves how they feel, what they want, and what a healthy life actually looks like. They are prioritising mental health, boundaries, and self-awareness, sometimes in ways that challenge everything that came before.

So we arrive back at the question. What does it mean to live your best life?

Is it achievement? Is it freedom? Is it connection? Is it health? Or is it the ability to live a life where your body is not in constant survival, where your emotions have space to exist, where your relationships feel safe and real, and where your choices reflect who you truly are?

Maybe the real best life is not about having everything. Maybe it is about not having to abandon yourself in the process of living it.

From here, another question begins to take shape.

How do we now care for those who came before us?

How do we hold the silent generation at this stage of life in a way that lets them know they are loved, they are worthy, they matter, and that what they have done, and who they have been, still holds meaning?

This is not a simple or idealistic question.

Because the truth is, not all parent–child relationships are easy. Not all are warm. Not all are safe. For many, the relationship has always been complicated, marked by distance, misunderstanding, or emotional absence. In some cases, the loss did not begin with death. It began years earlier, in what was never said, never felt, never repaired.

So this cannot be approached with rose-tinted thinking. Care, in this context, has to be honest.

To care for this generation is not always to feel close. Sometimes, it is simply to choose presence where you can. It might be sitting beside them, even in silence, or listening to the same stories repeated over and over again. What may feel repetitive can be their way of holding onto identity, making sense of their life, or simply staying connected.

Care does not always have to be grand or emotionally expressive. For this generation especially, love is often understood through consistency, through time given, through practical support. Sometimes, being able to hold steady, to tolerate the discomfort, the slowness, even the emotional distance, is enough.

There is also something quieter and perhaps more profound. To care for them is to begin to see them as people, not just as parents. People who carried burdens we may never fully understand, who made choices within the limits of their time, and who lived lives shaped by duty, not always by desire.

This does not erase the impact they may have had. It does not dismiss hurt. It does not require a rewriting of one’s own experience. But it can allow space for a different kind of holding, one that is boundaried, but humane.

Maybe care, at this stage, is not about fixing the relationship. Maybe it is about asking what is possible here, now, and meeting that honestly.

Because in the end, being able to sit with them, to listen, to remain, even in small ways, might be one of the most meaningful forms of love we can offer.

Warmly

Jules

Seven Years Later.. What are you prepared to burn?

by Julie Githiri

By Julie Githiri

After the quiet realisation that COVID 19 was not three years ago but nearly seven, have you paused to ask yourself what you have actually built, shifted, or become since then?

Seven years.

It feels both like yesterday and another lifetime.

That period forced us into something few of us were prepared for: collective upheaval. Loss sat at our tables. Fear became a daily companion. The illusion of control dissolved almost overnight.

It was all on the menu.

Our mental health absorbed the impact. Anxiety normalised itself. Depression disguised itself as fatigue. Relationships, romantic, familial, even friendships were placed under a magnifying glass. Some cracked under pressure during lockdown. Others survived, only to quietly unravel later. Proximity does not always equal intimacy. And survival does not always mean growth.

Seven years is often culturally referenced as the “itch” period. The point at which comfort turns to restlessness. Where familiarity begins to feel restrictive. Where the question forms, is this it?

So, what is your itch this year?

Is it your career? The role that once felt prestigious but now feels performative?
Is it your body neglected, overworked, uncelebrated?
Is it the relationship you are maintaining out of loyalty rather than vitality?
Is it the version of yourself you’ve outgrown?

Everything feels up for evaluation.

In many African and diasporic cultures, endurance is praised. Stability is admired. Respectability is currency. We are taught to maintain marriages, reputations, roles even when something inside us quietly withers.

But what if maintenance is not the same as alignment?

What if this season is asking you not to preserve but to reassess?

There is a provocative line from the film Outlast: “Let it burn. Burn the whole thing down.”

It sounds reckless. Dramatic. Dangerous.

But sometimes burning is not destruction… it is transformation.

Forest fires, while devastating, create fertile ground for regeneration. Old growth makes space for new life. What if some parts of your life are not meant to be sustained, but surrendered?

What do you have to lose?

That question is confronting. Because often what we have to lose is not the relationship, the job, or the status, it is identity.

Maybe the real discomfort of the last seven years is not what happened externally, but what surfaced internally.

Maybe you discovered that you no longer like the version of yourself you became in order to cope.

Or perhaps more painfully, you realised who you never allowed yourself to become at all.

That realisation can sting, like a mwiko (wooden spoon) striking across wet legs. Sharp. Immediate. Unavoidable. It jolts you awake.

But jolts are not punishments. They are invitations.

Starting again, however, is terrifying.

Especially if you are someone who prides yourself on being composed. In control. Strategic. The dependable one.

Let’s talk about control.

For many high-functioning adults particularly those raised in environments where uncertainty was unsafe, control feels like protection. If you decide how, when, and where something unfolds, you reduce risk. You minimise chaos.

Right?

Actually …not quite.

Control can also be a sophisticated form of fear.

Fear of vulnerability.
Fear of failure.
Fear of visibility.
Fear of needing something that may not be reciprocated.

The pandemic taught us something uncomfortable: control is often an illusion.

We could not control infection rates. We could not control economic shifts. We could not control how others responded to stress. What we could control sometimes barely, was our own response.

And even that felt fragile.

So perhaps the real growth of the last seven years is not about what you achieved promotions, partnerships, property, but about how you adapted.

Did you harden?
Did you soften?
Did you numb?
Did you awaken?

For some of you reading this, the idea of “burning it down” feels liberating. For others, it feels irresponsible. Especially within cultural frameworks where family expectations, communal identity, and generational sacrifice are deeply woven into decision-making.

The tension between personal freedom and collective responsibility is real.

But growth does not always require demolition.

Sometimes it requires truth.

Truth about what no longer fits.
Truth about what you desire.
Truth about the ways you have abandoned yourself in order to belong.

The seven-year itch is not always about leaving. It is about examining.

Maybe your itch is not your partner but your unexpressed needs.
Maybe it is not your job but your underused talent.
Maybe it is not your body but your relationship to it.

Maybe the thing that needs to “burn” is not your life, but the narrative you have been living inside.

Letting go of control does not mean recklessness. It means recalibration.

It means trusting that uncertainty is not inherently dangerous.

It means allowing yourself to become someone slightly unfamiliar.

And yes that can feel destabilising.

But it can also feel alive.

Seven years ago, the world shifted without asking our permission.

This time, perhaps, you get to choose the shift.

So as you stand in this post-pandemic landscape, ask yourself not just what you have achieved but who you have become.

And more importantly who you are ready to be.

Because sometimes things do need to burn.

Not to destroy you.

But to reveal you.

Warmly 

Jules